


In This Valley of Dying Stars

by Ritequette



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Introspection, M/M, Pie Slice OT3 For the Win, You've been warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-22 07:43:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7426147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ritequette/pseuds/Ritequette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Alma Karma...</p>
<p>Howard Link struggles to figure out where his loyalties lie. </p>
<p>Kanda Yuu struggles to figure out what life he wants to lead.</p>
<p>And Allen Walker struggles to figure out just who (and what) he is.</p>
<p>...So naturally, things are complicated further by outside forces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s in the wake of Alma Karma, a tragedy nine years in the making, that Link first realizes he stands on a precipice. Across the enormous valley, far away, on a higher cliff that now seems unreachable, is the Central Link used to worship without thought. The Central that saved him from a life of begging on the streets, or a death by starvation in a dirty alley. The Central that took in a worthless street rat and produced a warrior capable of fighting in the Holy War. The Central Link is no longer sure he can trust. 

Not after the Thirds. Not after watching Tevak slip right through his fingers. Spirited off to be the Earl’s newest pawn.

If Link ever sees the Thirds again, he knows, he will have to fight them. Like every other _akuma_ in the world. 

So when Link stands before the council assembled to discuss Walker’s fate, he feels like the Cardinals at the table are a mile away from him, peering down at him with scorn etched into their faces, from their _higher_ cliff. When the council head refers to Walker as a _Sly Satan_ , like a driven, dedicated fifteen-year-old exorcist doomed to a horrible fate is something to be reviled instead of pitied—Link isn’t sure what he feels just then, but it’s certainly not respect, and it definitely isn’t the indifference he was proud of mastering years ago in the face of Central business he didn’t quite agree with.

Link feels long dormant emotions stirring inside his chest, and something he might dare to call protectiveness in his weaker moments. For his charge. For the boy he was assigned to follow day and night, as an ever-watchful hawk—for the boy Link was supposed to prove (and let’s face it, _not_ disprove) had heresy running thick in his blood. Link feels things for Walker he is not supposed to feel—camaraderie in the least—and he knows, damn well, that he’s been compromised for a long, long time.

If he was a better dog, he thinks, he would have removed himself from Walker’s surveillance months ago. But someone who shall remained unnamed gave him too much lead on his leash, and now he’s learned some _tricks_ he wasn’t supposed to know. Tricks that have left him incapable of disentangling himself from Walker at all… 

After the head Cardinal spits out that torture may very well be in Walker’s future, Link _almost_ loses his cool, almost lets his shoulders tense, almost lets his mouth curl down in disgust, almost speaks out of turn. (For a brief second, he wonders where the old Link has gone, the one who never questioned anything at all. He wonders if he left that Link in the ruins of the American Branch, or if it fell far behind him on some perilous mission with Walker months back.) But he maintains his illusion well enough that none of the ignorant Cardinals at the table can tell the difference, and gives his last few responses to their questions and demands in something approximate to his usual tone.

They believe it. For now.

Link sometimes wishes he could believe it himself. It would make everything simpler.

But that’s how Allen Walker works, as Link has learned very well. Allen Walker cannot exist without complications at every turn.

Link closes the door to the meeting room with a soft click that’s almost a slam loud enough to wake the dead. He releases a deep, shaky breath he’s been holding for the last half an hour, and then adjusts his jacket and collar, both of them feeling too tight—they’ve felt tight for so long now, and Link knows it’s not because he’s grown. Sighing, he turns on his toes and restores his best illusion of his typical demeanor.

He has a trip to make to the cafeteria.

If there’s anything that frustrates Link more than Central’s recent behavior, it must be Walker’s unyielding stubbornness. Link has tried to convince him, again and again, that the food is safe to eat. But the boy is so afraid of giving up Kanda and Alma Karma, even in their likely deaths, that he keeps refusing to eat—despite the consequences. He’s so weak, after days of starvation, that he’s hardly awake, and even when awake he’s barely alert.

Link is watching Allen Walker fade before his very eyes. And he can’t stand it. Can’t stand to watch the weight of the 14th’s awakening bow Walker’s head. Can’t stand watching hunger gnaw away at the light in his eyes, his own Innocence slowly draining his life to make up the difference. Can’t stand to watch Walker inch closer and closer to giving up altogether, not when he’s put so much effort into walking forward.

Huffing in frustration, Link marches down the drafty corridors and through the wide open doors of the cafeteria. There are whispers as he passes, speculation about what happened in America, rumors swirling about Walker’s impending punishment, questions about his role in the “grand scheme” of things. Link ignores the hushed words. He has more important things to do.

He also ignores the furious and suspicious glares from Walker’s assortment of friends. He knows they don’t all think him a bad person, but they can’t help the resentment they feel for his role in Walker’s current situation. Link can’t help the resentment he feels for himself.

He orders a simple meal for Walker, rice gruel, and not so subtly hints to Chef Jerry that perhaps he should write a message to Walker on it. Jerry takes the hint and writes the worst thing he can think of. About Lvellie, of course. (In his younger years, Link would have been furious at the impertinence. Now, he’s started to wonder, in his off moments, if he should be just as critical about the Inspector as everyone else seems to be…)

Link thanks Jerry for the food and heads out the same way he entered, surrounded by the stares of the curious, targeted by the suspicions of the angry few. He brushes it all off and concentrates on the task at hand: get Walker to eat, no matter what. Because if Walker gets any weaker than he already is…Link would rather not continue that train of thought.

Down a winding staircase he goes, deeper and deeper into the belly of the Order’s new building, until he reaches the designated cell block area. As if the Order takes many prisoners—how strange, he realizes in hindsight, to put so many cells in a place that is not meant to be a prison. (But then, of course, the Order has always been a prison, to some. Bars not needed. Locks unnecessary.) Link wonders whose decision that was. And then he chastises himself; there’s no need to wonder. The answer is Central, like always.

The hallway that leads to Walker’s cell is long and narrow, the young exorcist stashed as far away from the rest of civilization as the building’s layout will allow. There are lights bolted to the walls on either side, but because of the numerous cell doors, they are too spread out, and deep shadows decorate the floor every few feet.

As Link nears Walker’s cell, he opens the top on the bowl, just to double check the food is still warm and the message still intact. He realizes, belatedly, his hand shaking as he sits the top back down, that he’s nervous to visit Walker, even though he’s done so every day since the boy was thrown in there to rot. There’s something about Walker’s gaze, not quite blank, a spark of judgment dancing in the blue, that makes Link feels…shame.

Link has felt many things during his years of service with Central. Shame hasn’t been in his vocabulary since he was in elementary training as a Crow. Of course, out of all people, it had to be Walker who brought it back.

For a second, Link pauses between two deep shadows, cast in black both from the left and right. He raises his gaze from the floor at last, where it’s been situated since he reached the end of the stairs, eyes affixed on nothing but the dusty stone. He inhales deeply, preparing himself, ready to put on a dramatic show that is wholly unlike him but that he knows will stir Walker from his stupor. _Kick down the door. March inside. Shove the bowl into Walker’s arms. Sit down in an angry fashion. Pout a lot._  

Yes…well… 

Link steels himself, feeling almost like he’s walking into battle instead of an awkward conversation. He throws his gaze to the end of the hall, where Walker’s cell door is, ready to call out to the guards to unlock the door so that he can make his grand entrance unimpeded. He parts his lips to speak, spotting two familiar forms in front of the door, but just as the first syllable leaves his tongue…

That’s when the dread assaults him. It winds its way up from his heels, through his spine, all the way up into his neck before settling back down in his stomach. He trains his eyes hard on the guards at the door, and notices that both of them are slumped strangely against the wall, as if they’re sleeping on their feet. And on top of that, Walker’s cell door is…partially open.

Link stands frozen for four seconds wile half a dozen dangerous scenarios slip in and out of his mind. Then a lifetime of training surges up from within, and all hesitation fades to gray. He sits the bowl of food on the floor. He flexes his hand to extend one of the blades on his wrists. And he creeps, quickly and quietly, up to the cell door.

As he closes in, he confirms his suspicion. The guards are alive but asleep, both of them somehow knocked out cold without even falling over. _Magic,_ whispers something in the back of Link’s mind. Something instinctual. And he agrees with it. Especially when he sees that the door to Walker’s cell hasn’t been opened with the guard’s key…it apparently just unlocked itself.

Link raises his free hand up to the door, tension running high through every muscle, ready to launch himself at whatever creature might be on the other side, threatening Walker in some way. Akuma. Noah. Or anything else.

Even another Crow.

He listens for a split second but hears nothing. Nothing at all. Not even the sound of Walker _breathing_.

Link reels back and kicks the door open, so hard it hits the wall and nearly shatters. 

Then he stares…into Walker’s empty cell. For the longest time. Empty of everything.

Except the blood on the floor. And the severed left arm sitting in the corner.


	2. Chapter 2

_It nags_ , Kanda thinks. It’s the only way he can describe it. 

From the moment the last pieces of Alma crumble away into dust, long after their spirits have walked off the edge of the earth, it _nags_ at him. When he finally forces himself to stand in a body that can barely hold itself together and begins to walk, one step after another, through the empty streets of Mater, it _nags_. From every shadow in every nook, every whistle of the wind, every creak and groan from the deserted dwellings of the city, it _nags_. And when he finally emerges from the cramped gathering of ghosts to see a familiar barren landscape laid out before him, all he can spy in the distance is that fucking _nagging_ thing.

Regret.

It nags at him, a gentle prodding in his chest, a sensation Kanda has not let himself feel since he walked out of the Asia Branch for the very first time, donning a exorcist’s uniform to hide the blood dried to his skin. For the last nine years of his life, he’s let himself feel nothing, not truly, not deeply, nothing except the inescapable drive to find _that person._

And then he did find that person. Right back where he started. And the floodgates opened, and the whole damn mess spilled out. Every pent-up scream. A decade’s worth of tears. A hundred thousand sobs caught in his throat. He let it all out in America, thinly veiled behind his rage, behind Mugen’s wicked slashes, behind a vain attempt to pretend he hadn’t destroyed his own last hope so many years ago…

Yes, he let it all out. Every last fucking thing.

And the only one who saw it all, besides Alma…was the beansprout.

No.

_No._  

Allen Walker.

Of course.

Kanda stands at the edge of a graveyard that was once a city full of dreams and laughs into the face of Death. (At the irony of it all.) He wants nothing more than to walk into its arms and let it lead him off, to chase after Alma one last time, to one last place he’ll ever go. But he can’t. He fucking can’t.

Because Allen Walker gave him what he wanted, what his bastardized second life had denied him for nearly a decade, and Allen Walker had done so with no regard to his own well-being. And now Allen Walker is doomed to a fate even worse than Kanda’s mockery of a second life, all because he decided to help a man who’s done nothing but snipe at him from the moment they met.

And it is that, that regret—causing Allen Walker to fall into the Noahs’ special hell—that nags at the back of Kanda’s cracked clay heart with every step he takes.

So instead of walking west, into the vast expanse of nothingness, until his blood runs dry and his lungs draw dirt, and what’s left of his life seal drains its last sparks—instead of walking into the arms of Death, Kanda turns east and walks back toward life.

When he gets there, he knows, he’ll have two choices. Because there are only two possibilities for what awaits him.

Allen Walker will triumph over the Noah as he promised, and Kanda will die standing off to the side, satisfied that he’s paid his remaining debts, done his due diligence. Then he will walk off alone into what comes after, to chase down what he loved before. And he won’t regret that. 

Or, Allen Walker will be destroyed by the enemy he’s spent so much time fighting, from the worst place of all—within—and Kanda will kill what is left of the boy with his own two hands and Mugen. Then Kanda will follow Allen Walker’s beleaguered soul as it walks forward into the afterlife, keeping a watchful eye on the stupid sprout to make sure he at least gets _there_ in one piece. 

And, if Kanda is being honest, only to himself standing in the shifting dust of the wasteland sprawled before him…

Yeah, he won’t regret _that_ either.

 

***

 

If there’s one thing Link has always readily admitted regarding his feelings about Central, it is that he loathes _bureaucracy_. Even the staunchest supporters of a firm hierarchy dislike bureaucracy. Even people who are part of the bureaucracy (like himself) find it distasteful. And though they all, himself included, consider bureaucracy a necessary part a well-functioning organization, there always lingers, in the back of their mouths, a stale chalky taste whenever they have to wade too deeply into _bureaucracy_. 

Link has tasted nothing else for the past four days.

He has sat in his room—Walker’s room, sans Walker—and filled out paperwork, signed affidavits, initialed witness reports. He has stood before committee after committee and recited the exact same story a dozen times. He has been in Supervisor Lee’s office, in a worn old chair, with the man himself staring daggers into Link’s eyes, and assured said Supervisor that he has not lied about a single detail. He has even had two private meetings with a Cardinal, during which the man tried to wheedle out any inconsistencies in Link’s description about Walker’s disappearance (as if they don’t trust their own Inspector). 

And that’s what they call it, too: “Walker’s disappearance.” Not Walker’s murder. Not Walker’s assassination. Not Walker’s abduction. 

Disappearance. As if there’s some possibility that Walker vanished of his own accord. 

Link is not nearly stupid enough to miss the obvious signs of an attack—a pint of blood on the cell floor, if not more, Walker’s beloved Crown Clown tossed in the corner like garbage. And he’s not docile enough—despite what Central’s upper echelons clearly think—to accept their absurd disbelief in Walker’s innocence regarding his…very possible death. (Mostly because it’s not disbelief at all; they’re just ecstatic to have a _valid_ excuse to persecute the boy.) 

At ten o’clock sharp, after a long day of draining meetings, talking his throat sore, defending himself against repeated attempts to poke holes in his “story,” shielding his ears against the incessant questions from Walker’s friends…Link is tired. 

Tired and losing hope. 

Crows have been searching for Walker since the moment Link sounded the alarm, and they’ve found nothing concerning the boy in or around the Order building. Almost as if he vanished. Almost as if he left through an Ark Gate (or perhaps one of Road Kamelot’s doors, spirited away to the Noah). 

And if it wasn’t for the blood still dried on the stone, for the Innocence arm now in Hevlaska’s possession, it would almost be like Walker never even existed at all. Almost like he was some ephemeral being, there one second, smiling and laughing, and gone the next, a ghost in someone’s memory. A figment of someone’s twisted imagination. 

Link strips off half his clothes, letting them fall wherever they may, unconcerned for the first time in a long time about appearing disheveled. It’s not like he’s sharing a room with someone who can judge him, after all. Not anymore.

He drops into his makeshift bed on the floor of Walker’s room, bones aching like he’s fought his way through a blood-soaked battlefield, and stares, idly, at Walker’s bed nearby. Sheets pulled all the way up. Pristine. Because it hasn’t been slept in well over a week now, its occupant first imprisoned, and now… 

Link smacks himself in the face and swears. He had one job, one task: supervise Allen Walker. And he’d let the boy get viciously assaulted right under the Order’s nose. Sure, the guards at the cell had failed as well—but they’re considered _victims_. They’re now suffering from some strange amnesia, both of them still in the infirmary. And on top of that, they don’t have Link’s training, or the heavy responsibilities weighing on Link’s shoulders. 

No, no. All eyes are on Howard Link. The ex-Crow Inspector who somehow arrived mere moments too late to stop the Order’s most infamous member from vanishing into the night. The ex-Crow Inspector now coming dangerously close to cracking under the pressure and revealing just how compromised he’s become—something Link can see the Cardinals now suspect. Because he keeps defending Walker instead of vilifying him like they want. 

Everyone that has the power to _act_ is paying attention to Link. 

And everyone forced to stay in line and wait for orders, himself included, is being forced to watch as what remains of Allen Walker fades to gray in the Order’s halls, more and more day after day.

Link turns away from Walker’s bed. But he doesn’t sleep.


End file.
